


Empty in the Valley of Your Heart

by Northisnotup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has thick claws dug into the fabric, flesh and bone over his heart and, slowly she is twisting and turning them. Every minute shift of her talons makes Derek flinch, knees almost buckling and his jaw audibly cracking where his teeth slat together, clenched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty in the Valley of Your Heart

She has thick claws dug into the fabric, flesh and bone over his heart and, slowly she is twisting and turning them. Every minute shift of her talons makes Derek flinch, knees almost buckling and his jaw audibly cracking where his teeth slat together, clenched. 

And all they could do is watch. Six people, scattered around the room, none able to get to him, unsure how, or if, to help even if they could. Nothing so far could cross the line of blood, bone and herbs she’d scattered to keep her prey with her, and beyond that the line of salt and ash laid to keep her in. 

None of them had been prepared for the confrontation. They hadn't even really figured out what she is. Harpy, succubus, or shapeshifer, she carries traits of all three. Never in the same form twice, preyed nearly exclusively on men, seduced them into coming with her, and then ate their hearts out. -Literally. Derek hadn't shift yet, wasn't fighting her, probably because the only thing they found that would even slow her down, let alone wound her: Werewolf's blood. She must know, she taunts him about it enough, leaning forward, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, but once she begins feeding she can't stop, she’s vulnerable and Derek is dying. 

They had stopped trying the barrier by now. Half an hour has passed. Half an hour of her slowly, glacial slow, sinking her talons in. Half an hour of Derek trying not to scream, not to react, not to fight; not to show her that she is winning. As if she needs the confirmation. She laughs and coos, letting his skin slowly heal around her claws, muscle clinging to them, and then digging them in just that much further, tearing him further open. Half an hour of waiting impatiently for Stiles and Deaton to get back from his shop, to get here with a miracle. 

Erica spends her time pacing along the barrier. Boyd staying back, he knows her moods by now. Knows not to touch her, to just let her feel, and she'll come back to him eventually. She's not testing it, not feeling it. There's nothing she can do, she is vividly aware. But the waiting, the helplessness of being unable to anything but listen to time tick by has always driven her insane. Even after the seizures. Every once in a while Derek will meet her eyes, and she doesn't know how she's supposed to feel about it. Whatever pack bond once was between them had long ago faded. He's trying to tell her something, but fuck if she knows what. So she paces, and while she knows she shouldn't, she isn't beholden to him and she doesn't owe him anything, she wants to figure out what he's saying, wants the time to respond. Erica's afraid. 

She has lured Derek in, after taking up residence in the shell of the Hale house, nesting. They'd found her that first night, rolling in the ashes, shrieking the names of his dead family. Stiles had been the one to drag him back, arms wrapped securely around the Alpha's torso, no one else willing to get that close, to touch Derek in his rage and grief. Not that Derek really had much of a pack to be Alpha to anymore. Boyd and Erica solidly on their own team, Isaac allied with Scott and Peter now, Lydia and Jackson keeping in touch but trying to stay out of anything resembling fighting. Allison keeping up with her father and his training, Stiles the neutral go between all of them. 

No one is really even sure why Derek stays at all. No family, no friends, no pack, but he continues to help, to keep Beacon Hills safe from whatever baddie of the week shows up to wreak havoc. 

This night, they had come just to case the place. See what the creature had done to it. She had surprised them at the porch, her form older than the models she preferred, late 40's maybe early 50's, long black hair, shot with grey and wild, green-grey eyes, and something eerily familiar about the way she carried herself. It wasn't until Derek charged her, roaring in pain, and Peter's still, shocked form whispering 'Meredith,' over and over again that they realized she has copied, somehow, Derek's mother. 

She caught him in her claws, dragged him into her cage, crooning at him, slipping effortlessly through the faces of his siblings; as Peter gave their names with quiet reverence. Paul - the oldest, sharp faced Laura, chubby Katherine, pouting Leila, and finally the constant shining of Haley. With every face, the wolves in the room flinch, hearing Derek's heart lurch as the beast laughs. 

It hits Allison then, their pictures had probably burned in the fire. With the exception of Laura, this is the first time in 6 years Derek has seen his family outside his nightmares. And he is dying. They haven't spoken, not the way she has with the rest of them. She knows where she stands, with everyone but Derek. They've been in the same room, poured over the same battle plans, tearing into each other’s strategy viciously. But they haven't spoken. Not about anything really important. Like Kate, his family, Peter or her mother. Allison isn't quite sure why she's so angry, but it feels unfinished; like she should have the opportunity to yell at him, to make him answer for her mother's death. With Gerard gone though, she’s not so certain it really was him. But she deserves a chance to speak with him if she ever wants to. She doesn't, not now. But she may, and she feels robbed of that. 

She has his head resting on her shoulder, arms around him in a mockery of an embrace- humming and snarling alternately in his ear, telling lies and unfortunate truths. Sometimes she'll sing actual songs in what must be his mother's voice, and Derek will wrench himself away, hair tearing out at the roots, shocking the room with his blood scent; her talons jarring into bone. Other times he’ll shove himself forward onto her claws, trying to end it quicker and her mockery will ring through the house. 

The clock hits an hour, punctuated by the sharp cracking of Derek's ribs breaking, finally under the pressure of her claws. She shifts then into Laura's face once more, murmuring, face and voice gentle. 

"Just give in Derek. Stop fighting me, please?" To everyone's surprise, he does; tension finally draining out of his frame, letting it drape back into hers, his hands dropping from where they were clenched around her wrist, hanging on for dear life. Tear slip down his bloodless face down to mingle with the muck and blood already soaking his shirt. Gasps of pain huffing out from pale, chapped lips and easy as breathing, her face is Kate's, and her lips are ghosting over his neck, parodying sweetness. 

Erica closes her eyes, halting the shift, feeling like she just lost. Allison stands still plucking the string of her bow, anxious and feeling sick; like she wants to punch things. Because this thing has her Aunt's face now and if this is a fraction of what Derek felt, she cannot believe he's giving up. 

Boyd clenches his jaw, turning his head to face the wall. He never blamed Derek, not really. When he was bit, Derek hadn't promised him strength, or sex appeal, or anything like that. Hadn't even really promised friends or family, those things Boyd wanted the most. He'd said 'A Pack is supposed to be a family. It doesn't always work out that way, not in the beginning, or at all, really. But we can try.' He hadn't been a good leader, had looked ashamed when Boyd pointed it out, but he never put himself above the pack, and had always tried. So no, Boyd doesn't blame him, but neither can he watch Derek blame himself. 

Isaac had sat down and closed his eyes the second she got a hold of Derek. He is out on the porch, unwilling to move, hands clamped over his ears as if it can help. Derek let him down. Derek hurt him. Derek lost his pack. That was all there is to it. Except. When Derek turned him, he hadn't asked if he wanted the power to hurt his father. He'd asked if he wanted to stop feeling afraid. To feel like he could defend himself. If he wanted a place to belong. And he had. He still had Erica and Boyd, and after his father had died Derek was still there, hadn't judged him for his anchor, in fact, he'd looked envious for a moment. Isaac chokes back a sob, claws digging into his scalp, palms pressing down on his ears hard enough to bruise. Derek had let him down, but he doesn't want to hear him die. He doesn’t want Derek to die. 

Scott stares on, eyes yellow; half shifted and determined to see this through. Peter watches, face solemn, but eyes positively gleeful. There are no sad scents from him. If anyone's gaze falls on him at the moment, they would see him give a short nod. But no one is watching Peter, which was just the way he likes it.  
They are frozen as her muscles bunch; preparing to send the claws those last little bit, through tissue and muscle to his heart. Where she will shred it into manageable pieces and eat it out of his collapsed body. 

A shot claps out like thunder through the air, shocking the shifter before she can attack, sending the wolves to the floor in various shades of auditory distress. Allison looks up through her hair and arms out protecting her face, hoping and expecting her see her father there, shotgun loaded with whatever will kill the bitch. It's Stiles in the doorway, but the shotgun part was right. 

The first shot rips through the two barriers, rendering them moot. The second rips through the harpy, tearing her away from Derek, her claws sliding right until they pop free of his flesh. Derek, using the last of his strength to stagger himself away from her and Erica darting forward to take some of his weight.  
Stiles slumps against the wall, letting Allison take the gun from his numb hands to finish off the harpy bitch. Okay, so she wasn’t a harpy. Hexenbiest – translation is the literal Witch Bitch in German. Seduces their victims by looking like someone from their past, therefore capable of minor telepathy, eats the heart, is drawn in by heart break. Deaton had searched everywhere before finally finding an adaptation of an old Wiccan spell to try. Time was running out and it was all they had. The Fiery Wall of Protection: frankincense, myrrh, dragon’s blood, and salt. Of course, they substituted werewolves’ blood, helpfully donated by Jackson, and shoved it all into a shotgun shell, but hey, it worked! Derek was. Not in the room. Huh.  
_____

Heaving himself up, Stiles looked around wearily; Scott had grabbed Isaac, the two of them conferring with Peter. Allison, was phoning her father. Erica and Boyd leaning into each other’s space, Derek apparently fine to walk on his own now… after a little over an hour of mental and physical torture; Yea, no. Fighting against the bone deep fatigue weighing him down, Stiles stumbled outside, past the six people who seemed entirely too at ease for just watching torture, at catch up with a limping Derek. To yell at a drooping Derek. 

“What the fuck was that?” He had his hands in Derek’s ripped shirt now, shaking him without even meaning too, blood and gore dripping onto his wrists and down his forearms. “What was that? Where you even fighting her? Did you even try?” 

Derek is avoiding his eyes. Stiles could see green eyes, half-lidded and sloping to the side, but the wolf wouldn’t look at him. Derek never backs down from a challenge, and in this instant, Stiles is more lost than he has ever been. 

“God,” His voice breaks. He’s not proud of it, wouldn’t ever admit to in, even in a court of law, but his voice fucking breaks. His hands are sliding up helplessly to grab at Derek’s fucking perfect fucking cheekbones, to tilt his face and look into those green-grey eyes and really make him see. “How long? How fucking long have you been just waiting for something to kill you? For them to let you die?” 

Stiles isn’t expecting an answer, so when Derek gives him one, a sigh of an answer, voice inexplicably reminding the teen of broken glass, his heart leaps, and aches, and he wants to rip apart everything and put Derek back together and give him something, anything. 

“Since the mad man who killed my sister mind fucked a teenage girl into using my blood to come back to life. That’s about when.” 

It’s rage he feels then; anger that compels him to jerk back one of his hands and thump it uselessly into Derek’s rib cage, splattering gore over them both. Passion that makes him wrench the Alpha closer, to fit their mouths together furiously. A quiet, desperate noise echo’s though Derek’s chest, hitting Stiles like a blow to the gut, knees going weak as they cling to each other. It feels like it’s been forever, when he finally pulls back, panting wetly against the Alpha’s bruised lips. 

“You can’t, okay? You can’t die on me, you are not allowed. Because you are the only person here who always knows which end is up. Always. And I can’t lose that.” He is dangerously close to something, here on the dirt road outside the Hale house. Boxing Derek in against his car, he is close to something that could hurt, and rip, and be fucking wonderful and vulnerable. And exactly what he needs and the only thing he can give Derek that might make him come down from this edge he’s on. 

“I can’t lose you, okay?” whispering against parted flesh, Stiles can’t help but turn just a little and scrape his lips over Derek’s cheek, under his eye, over his chin, anywhere he can reach until the older man claims his mouth again, just as rough and needy as before. His hands are like vices around Stiles, holding them crushed together, chest to chest. 

Then inexplicably, he draws back, holding them apart when Stiles surges forward to try to continue. A gentle hand angles his head to the side, so Derek can brush a gentle kiss over his eyebrow. It feels like an apology and a goodbye all at once, and Stiles wants to fight, to scream and make Derek believe, but a gentle puff of breath over his ear stops him. It’s more a wisp than a whisper, and he almost doesn’t think that he’s meant to hear it, Derek saying: “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” Getting into his car, and driving away. 

Stiles is left shuddering, standing frozen, covered in cooling blood that isn’t his; hearing those words, as Scott and Peter have repeated them for the last few weeks. A goodbye. He’s thrown by what he feels then, the urge to rip and tear giving way to him storming back into the Hale house, tripping over the bitch’s dead form to curl his fists in Scott’s hoodie and shake him. 

Because Scott’s giving him that look. He’s been giving Stiles that look since they were six years old and Scott had his ice cream and then squished Stiles’ by ‘accident,’ and Stiles knows- just knows- that they heard every word said. Scott has his eyebrows twisted together, lips thinned in a small, hopeful/hopeless smile, shoulders slightly shrugged: guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. As quickly as he grabbed Scott, his hands are falling away, numb. Everything is numb, and there is a rushing in his ears. Everything is making more sense than it should. Scott should not be capable of this kind of betrayal. 

“How long?” His mouth is moving, he must be speaking, but all Stiles can focus on his the way Scott’s features are twisting, guilt, hope, indecision, over and over again. “How long have you known and were you just going to let him die? God Scott! You don’t like him, but you were just going to let him die, weren’t you?” Those squinted brown eyes dart quickly, to the floor, Stiles’ face, the floor, Stiles’ face, and the shoulders shrug just a little more. He knows the tone Scott’s going to pull before it’s out of his mouth. 

“Come on Stiles! You wanted Allison to shoot him last year! With an arrow! Besides, it’s not like he’s really even a leader…” Higher pitch than usual, slight whine and a quiet grumble at the end, because he is a fucking child. Take me seriously, the tone says. “Would it really be so bad?” 

Done. He is officially, contact signed, t’s crossed and I’s dotted, counted the votes and the motion has passed, DONE, with this. With Scott. He cannot keep acting like a moral compass for this guy, his freaking soul brother, only to be ignored. The straw has finally broke the camel’s back. So he does what he always does. What Scott expects him to do: He laughs. Ducks his head, runs a hand over his stubble nervously. Nods and holds his hands out in front of him, palms up. 

“That shit is not okay Scott. Next time you pull something like this, don’t expect me to come running to save the day, okay? From now on, no Stiles.” And he tries, he really does, let it be known that Stiles tries to make a clean break, tries to walk away clean, head down and heart broken, he tries. So when Scott grabs his arm, clings, whines, tries to explain, only to get a knee in his ribs that is not Stiles’ fault. Well, maybe a little. But he walks away without trouble after that. Decrepit door swinging shut on rotten hinges behind him, to Peter’s voice. 

“Well done Scott. I know it was hard, and didn’t go exactly to plan, not your fault, but I’m proud of you. You’re finally figuring out what it takes to be an Alpha.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for the baddie is from my dreams, the name is from Grimm and the description of how to kill her is a Wiccan spell, idea given by dear friend Seb. I apologize for any offence taken by the Wiccan community, if anything is wrong please contact me and I'll try to remedy the best i can.
> 
> My version of the Hale family backstory will follow shortly.


End file.
